UC-NRLF 


POEMS 


GLADYS  CROMWELL 


POEMS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 
TORONTO 


POEMS 


BY 

GLADYS  CROMWELL 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

PADRAIC  COLUM 


gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1919 

A.II  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  December,  1919. 


n 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  Editor  of  Poetry  for 
courteous  permission  to  reprint  "  The  Fugi 
tive,"  "  The  Crowning  Gift,"  "  Folded  Power," 
"The  Mould,"  "Autumn  Communion"  and 
"  Star  Song  " ;  also  to  the  Editor  of  The  New 
Republic  for  "  Winter  Landscape "  and 
"  Words,"  and  to  the  Sunwise  Turn  for  "  The 
Scientist.'9 


453215 


INTRODUCTION  TO  GLADYS 
CROMWELL'S  POEMS 

The  poetry  of  Gladys  Cromwell  was  that  of 
an  out-dweller  on  modern  life.  In  it  there  are 
no  mannerisms,  no  novelties.  Personality  is 
expressed,  but  it  is  not  exhibited.  It  is  a 
poetry  that  has  the  accent  of  actuality,  but  of 
an  actuality  known  to  a  noble  heart  and  a  dis 
tinguished  spirit. 

There  is  nothing  facile  in  these  poems.  In 
deed  in  certain  of  them  the  workmanship  is  halt 
ing  and  unachieved.  But  in  the  poems  that 
are  the  least  fluent  there  are  moments  of  mas 
tery  —  moments  when  the  words  become  alive 
with  spirit.  Such  a  poem  as  "  Conflict  "  seems 
to  come  out  of  the  silence  and  the  dark  like  a 
living  thing.  And  there  is  exquisite  achieve 
ment  in  "The  Mould,"  "Folded  Power," 
"  Autumn  Communion,"  "  Star  Song,"  "  Def 
inition,"  "Dominion,"  "The  Crowning  Gift." 
These  are  fine  lyrics  indeed  —  indubitably 
amongst  the  best  that  has  been  written  in  our 
day. 

Amongst  many  other  distinctions  this  poetry 
has  the  distinction  of  being  a  woman's  poetry, 
[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 

I  do  not  mean  that  it  has  an  obviously  feminine 
interest.  Again,  one  can  say  that  personality 
is  not  exhibited.  But  the  perceptions  are  a 
woman's  perceptions.  The  eagerness  is  a  wom 
an's  eagerness.  The  renunciations  are  a  wom 
an's  renunciations.  The  wit  is  a  woman's  wit. 
And  yet,  although  it  is  assuredly  a  woman's 
poetry,  its  balance  dips  towards  thought  rather 
than  to  emotion.  It  is  a  poetry  that  comes 
out  of  impassioned  thought.  Indeed  I  think 
"  thought  "  is  the  word  most  often  used  by 
Gladys  Cromwell.  She  felt  herself  bound  and 
laden,  but  like  certain  philosophical  determin- 
ists  she  knew  herself  free  in  meditation  and  in 
trospection.  Out  of  this  free  and  dearly  ap 
preciated  thought  she  made  her  poems. 

In  all  she  wrote  there  is  an  attempt  to  do  a 
difficult  thing  —  to  say.  What  she  writes  is 
not  a  phrase,  but  a  statement.  Stripped  of 
rime  and  rhythm  these  poems  would  have  the 
interest  of  something  written  in  a  diary  by  a 
clear  and  a  sincere  soul.  The  world  was  dif 
ficult  for  her,  but  it  was  intelligible,  as  she 
averred  in  her  poem  "  The  Audience  " ;  and  this 
sense  of  intelligibility  brought  her  to  a  deliber 
ate  and  often  to  a  finely  achieved  form. 

Most  of  her  poems  are  touched  by  a  tragic 
vision  of  life  — 

[viii] 


INTRODUCTION 

"  Trust  not  your  hopes  for  all  are  vain, 
Trust  not  your  happiness  and  pain, 
Trust  not  your  storehouses  of  grain, 
Trust  not  your  strength  on  land  or  sea, 
Trust  not  your  loves  that  come  and  go, 
Trust  only  the  hate  of  the  common  foe, 
War  is  the  one  reality." 

Her  songs  are  to  enfold  her  sorrow  "  like  por 
tions  of  a  mellow  sheath."  The  "  age-bent  " 
woman  that  she  once  saw  lead  the  herd  to  pas 
ture  is  made  to  typify  a  resignation  that  the 
young  poet  herself  has  striven  for.  She  can 
never  be  off  guard.  She  is  proud  that  she  has 
had  the  courage  to  oppose,  and  she  knows  that 
she  has  won  illumination  from  conflict. 

There  was  one  gay  tune,  however,  that  she 
wrote  to  triumphantly  —  the  Elizabethan  tune. 
When  she  struck  it  she  became  fluent  with  beau 
tiful  words  and  imagery. — 

As  clouds  lie  in  the  west, 
My  fairest  pleasures  rest 
In  you,  their  element 
Of  being.     Loath  to  die 
They  ornament  your  sky, 
Amassed,  magnificent. 

The  poems  she  has  written  to  this  measure 
have  a  smiling  detachment. 

All  that  Gladys  Cromwell  had  to  say  came 
out  of  a  spiritual  experience  brooded  over  and 
made  her  own,  and  elevated  by  an  heroic  quality 
[ix] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  mind.  She  was  steadily  moving  towards  a 
more  perfect  achievement  and  the  poems  that 
she  wrote  in  the  last  years  and  before  the 
world's  trouble  drew  her  away  were  finer  and 
more  assured  than  those  she  had  previously 
written.  Behind  the  lines  of  battle  her  spirit 
showed  as  clearly  and  as  beautifully  as  it  does 
in  her  poetry.  A  year  ago  the  soldiers  in  the 
Chalons  section  were  speaking  of  herself  and 
her  sister  (two  beings  indeed  with  a  single  soul) 
as  "  the  Saints."  The  Government  of  France 
recognized  their  devotion  and  the  worth  of  their 
service  by  the  decoration  it  gave.  These  sis 
ters  were  like  twin  spirits  caught  into  an  alien 
sphere,  strangely  beautiful  and  strangely  apart, 
and  the  heavy  and  unimaginable  weight  of  the 
world's  agony  became  too  great  for  them  to 
bear.  The  one  who  was  the  articulate  poet  has 
left  a  triumphant  stanza  for  our  thought  of 

them  — 

I  know  that  we  exist, 
Two  entities  in  Time. 
Our  vital  wills  resist 
Enclosing  night;  our  thoughts 
Command  a  Truth  above 
All  fear,  in  knowing  Love. 

So  an  Iphigenia  might  speak  in  a  play  by  an 
Euripides  of  our  day. 

PADRAIC   COLUM. 

w 


LATER  POEMS 


THE  ACTOR-SOLDIER 

ON  the  grass  I'm  lying, 
My  blanket  is  the  sky ; 
This  feeling  is  called  dying. 

No  one  will  testify 

They  saw  me  suffer  this  ;  — 

There's  no  one  passing  by. 

The  wonder  of  it  is, 
I'm  by  myself  at  last 
With  plain  realities. 

No  one  is  here  to  cast 
A  part  for  me  to  play ; 
My  term  of  life  is  past. 

No  one  is  here  to  see 
How  I  can  meet  and  take 
This  end ;  —  how  gallantly  — 

Though  the  ice  that  binds  a  lake 
Must  weigh  less  heavily 
Than  Death  to  my  soul  awake. 
[3] 


LATER  POEMS 

I  must  have  thirsted,  indeed, 
For  pity,  then  love,  then  praise ; 
For  to  win  them,  in  every  deed, 
I  endeavoured  all  my  days. 

The  Soldier  and  the  Son 
Were  my  seductive  parts; 
But  I  could  act  the  clown, — 
Draw  laughter  from  dumb  hearts. 

The  Soldier  part  was  my  best, — 
'Twas  my  last  and  my  favourite. 
Every  gift  that  I  possessed 
I  displayed  for  their  benefit. 
Who  are  They  ?     On  my  breast 
Weighs  the  infinite. 

Ah,  yes,  I  appeared  heroic, 
Unflinching,  true  and  brave ; 
I  wore  the  look  of  a  stoic ;  — 
All  hurts  I  forgave. 

But  now  on  the  grass  I  turn 
To  ease  a  little  the  pain ; 
It  is  not  too  late  to  learn. 

Last  night  I  lay  in  the  rain 
Until  my  body  was  numb, 
Hearing  like  a  refrain: 

[4] 


LATER  POEMS 

"  O  Masquerader,  come !  "- 
And  even  like  a  drum 
It  beat  into  my  brain : 
"  O  Masquerader,  come !  " 


[6] 


AUTUMN  COMMUNION 

THIS  autumn  afternoon 
My  fancy  need  invent 
No  untried  sacrament. 
Man  can  still  commune 
With  Beauty  as  of  old: 
The  tree,  the  wind's  lyre, 
The  whirling  dust,  the  fire  — 
In  these  my  faith  is  told. 

Beauty  warms  us  all ; 
When  horizons  crimson  burn, 
We  hold  heaven's  cup  in  turn. 
The  dry  leaves,  gleaming,  fall, 
Crumbs  of  mystical  bread ; 
My  dole  of  Beauty  I  break, 
Love  to  my  lips  I  take, 
And  fear  is  quieted. 

The  symbols  of  old  are  made  new : 
I  watch  the  reeds  and  the  rushes ; 
The  spruce  trees  dip  their  brushes 
In  the  mountain's  dusky  blue ; 
The  sky  is  deep  like  a  pool; 
A  fragrance  the  wind  brings  over 
[6] 


LATER  POEMS 

Is  warm  like  hidden  clover, 
Though  the  wind  itself  is  cool. 

Across  the  air,  between 

The  stems  and  the  grey  things, 

Sunlight  a  trellis  flings. 

In  quietude  I  lean : 

I  hear  the  lifting  zephyr 

Soft  and  shy  and  wild; 

And  I  feel  earth  gentle  and  mild 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  velvet  heifer. 

Love  scatters  and  love  disperses. 
Lightly  the  orchards  dance 
In  a  lovely  radiance. 
Down  sloping  terraces 
They  toss  their  mellow  fruits. 
The  rhythmic  wind  is  sowing, 
Softly  the  floods  are  flowing 
Between  the  twisted  roots. 

What  Beauty  need  I  own 

When  the  symbol  satisfies? 

I  follow  services 

Of  tree  and  cloud  and  stone. 

Color  floods  the  world ; 

I  am  swayed  by  sympathy; 

Love  is  a  litany 

In  leaf  and  cloud  unfurled. 

m 


THE  BEGGAR 

SHOWING  his  ill-made  frame 

And  mumbling  of  troubles  many, 

Along  a  public  street, 

The  cripple  calls  for  a  penny. 

Inviting  sympathy, 

By  his  rags  and  his  withered  arm, 
He  follows  and  frets  till  we  argue 

A  penny  can  do  him  no  harm. 

Just  now,  in  this  intimate  room, 
Sagacious,  clever  and  witty, 

Exposing  his  hardships,  a  Beggar 
Beckoned  his  friends  for  pity. 

Ugh!     By  displaying  his  pains, 
By  showing  his  heart  was  ashen, 

By  revealing  his  twisted  life, 

He  played  for  a  glance  of  compassion. 

Strange  how  I  longed  to  laugh ; 

His  feebleness  was  funny. 
I  thought :    "  He's  only  a  Beggar 

And  affection  is  golden  money. 
[8] 


LATER  POEMS 

"  Scorn  will  do  for  this  Beggar, 
And  a  smile  will  send  him  away ; 

I  will  keep  my  love  for  One 

Who  may  need  my  love  some  day. 

"  I  will  keep  my  love  for  One 

Who  is  brave  and  ashamed  of  tears 

The  importunity 

Of  silence  reaches  my  ears ;  — 

"  Life  on  its  lonely  way 

Moving  on  lonely  wings, 
And  the  mute  mind,  alone 

With  dark  imaginings." 

I  thought,  "  I  will  keep  my  love, — 

I  will  keep  my  tenderness, 
For  One  who  is  piteous, 

Hiding  his  loneliness." 


[9] 


THE  BREATH 

A    TREMBLING    crest 

Of  smoke,  the  winter  sky 
Congeals  to  bloom, 
To  please  a  poet's  eye: 

A  slender  reed 
Arisen  from  some  gold 
Recess  or  womb 
Of  flame  to  spaces  cold. 

Between  the  twigs, 
That  for  a  nest  are  spun 
On  flight's  grey  loom, 
A  sapphire  thread  may  run 

And  so  between  the  grey, 
The  woven  boughs  of  trees, 
A  little  plume 
Of  mist  the  poet  sees: 

It  will  suffice  — 
Too  scant  a  breath  to  name 
For  him  to  whom 
It  signifies  a  flame. 
[10] 


BY  THE  SEA 

0  FRIEND,  we  meet  and  feel  as  free 

As  two  young  children.     By  the  sea 

We  sift  the  sand.     From  where  we  sit 

The  line  of  shore  seems  infinite. 

The  landward  little  dunes  that  lie 

In  drifted  shapes  against  the  sky, 

Divide  and  sever  and  seclude 

Us  from  the  scenes  that  could  intrude 

Upon  our  chosen  time  of  pleasure ; 

In  the  ocean's  louder  measure, 

Speech  is  tempered  and  we  dare 

To  voice  perplexities  the  air 

Transmutes  to  clearer  truth  for  us. 

Our  love  is  new  and  venturous, 

Permits  veiled  intervals  and  terms 

Of  silence ;  in  each  pause  affirms 

Implicit  sympathies.     Our  words 

Take  wing,  float  seaward,  like  the  birds 

Upon  the  wind.     The  birds  and  love 

Are  free  to  soar  to  climes  above. 

But  there  are  white  waves  tethered  under 
Wanton  wings.     Are  those,  I  wonder, 
Like  our  thoughts, —  less  fugitive, 


LATER  POEMS 

Less  free  than  love  is, —  tentative 
And  groping,  lest  they  touch  and  stir, 
On  memories'  mystic  barrier, 
An  unforgotten  pain?     Are  we 
Then  fettered,  we  who  feel  so  free? 
We  sift  the  sand.     From  where  we  sit 
The  line  of  shore  seems  infinite. 
But  waves  into  their  tidal  fold 
Obedient  fall.     Unto  what  mould 
Of  wonted  pain  must  you  comply? 
O  tell  me,  are  you  bound  as  I 
With  links  of  your  own  failure?     Tell 
Me,  do  the  crowded  years  compel 
And  hinder  you?     What   tyranny 
Distorted  life,  like  an  oak  tree 
The  wind  has  twisted?     Long  ago 
Youth  was  rebellious.     Now  we  know 
Our  thought  is  tethered  like  a  wave, 
And  strong  compelling  tides  enslave 
Our  spirits.     No,  we  are  not  free. 
And  still  we  almost  seem  to  be  — 
For  since  we  newly  love,  our  words 
Take  wing,  float  seaward  like  the  birds, 


[12] 


CHOICE 

IMPERIOUS  Time,  I  must  prefer 
Thy  just  necessity: 
Resign  the  silent,  earlier 
Beliefs  grown  dear  to  me. 

The  stillness  left  alternatives 
To  youth,  a  freedom  wide 
And  dim  as  dreaming,  but  man  lives, 
And  must  one  day  decide. 

There  is  a  doom  the  years  compel: 
I  must  approach  the  goal 
Decreed,  where  it  behooves  me  dwell: 
I  must  declare  my  soul; 

Must  speak  and  choose  what  stars  pertain 
To  me ;  needs  must  I  rest 
In  their  most  intimate  beams,  remain 
Committed  and  confessed. 

I  claim  a  tent  of  stars  in  place 
Of  heaven's  confusing  dome: 
A  tent  of  stars  in  a  dark  space  — 
The  sky  must  be  my  home. 
[13] 


LATER  POEMS 

I  must  adopt  a  finer  scope, 
A  tent  of  stars  in  space  — 
Affiliated  flames,  a  hope 
Auroral  creeds  embrace. 


[14] 


THE  CHRISTIAN 

I  WAS  free.     But  now  in  a  net  I  am  caught : 
In  a  delicate  net  of  love  I  am  taken ; 
I,  the  lonely,  whom  nobody  sought, 
Can  feel  the  poor  and  the  sorrow-shaken 
Draw  the  line  of  their  yearning  taut ; 
I  am  held  by  experience.     When  I  die 
Their  net  will  draw  me  through  fathoms  of  sky ; 
I  can  not  evade  immortality. 


[15] 


CHRISTMAS,  MADISON  SQUARE 

IN  dismal  darkness  stands  the  Christmas  pine 

The  Orthodox  have  put  up  for  a  sign 

Among  the  sombre  trees  that  mark  the  Square. 

Oh,  there  are  moral  people  everywhere 

Indulge  the  doctrine  still  of  "  doing  good ;  " 

They  brought  the  tree  uprooted  from  the  wood. 

Like  oranges  or  apples  of  warm  gold 

Are  bulbs  of  gleaming  light  the  branches  hold, 

And  yet  that  golden  fruit  no  languor  drenches ! 

Below,  the  motley  company 

Is  like  a  shadow,  neither  spiced  nor  gay, 

That  hovers  wearily  to  huddled  benches. 

On  one  of  these  a  woman  sits  alone; 
More  poor  than  thirsting  youth  for  being  older. 
She's  leaning  on  her  arm.    Her  slanted  shoulder 
Says  more  clear  than  any  word  she's  lonely. 
She  yields  the  icy  wind  her  neck  and  hair ; 
Her  lids  are  closed. 

A  foil  of  softer  air 

Brings  vision  of  the  forest  her  first  lover 
Wove  into  his  Poetry. 
To-night  her  shivering  fancy  can  recover 
The  scene  of  a  June  world  remote  and  free ; 
[16] 


LATER  POEMS 

The  tones  of  mist  and  of  blue  mirrored  hills. 

A  long-unheeded  beauty  pain  distils. 

Like  the  earth  under  pines  is  the  way  where  her 
memories  pass : 

She  sees  old  orchards  stifled  in  fresh  grass, 

The  shapes  of  little  apple  trees 

Scared  of  the  wind's  gathering,  on  their  knees ; 

The  spires  of  larch  rising  in  quiet  skies; 

The  elm  with  parted  stem  and  foliage  droop 
ing; 

The  mothering  willow  stooping 

To  kiss  the  stream; 

And  the  companionable  pine. 

Within  the  magic  of  the  Christmas  light, 

She  hears  hushed  words  of  love,  as  in  the  night 

One  hears  on  stones  the  flowing  of  a  brook. 

But  in  the  Square  about  the  tree  there's  singing ; 
And  now  the  winter  wind  her  cheek  is  stinging; 
Her  aching  soul  can  feel  the  heavy  frost. 

She  could  not  live  on  what  her  craft  was  earn 
ing; 

To  satisfy  the  dream  her  youth  kept  burning, 
And  she  was  ignorant  of  what  love  cost. 
To  the  blind  strength  of  love  her  body  shook, 
[17] 


LATER  POEMS 

And  to  the  joy  of  love  her  longing  darted; 
Now  she's  lonely  and  she's  broken-hearted. 

The  Fate  that  still  prevents  her  choice  to-day 

Is  Poverty,  a  Fate  that  mars 

The  slow  unfolding  spirit; 

Born  of  a  longing  to  inherit, 

Like  the  sweet  thirst  of  tree  tops  for  the  stars. 

Her  sin's  identity  is  need ; 

Her  thirst  a  thirst  for  God,  reversed 

Until  her  slaved  mortality  is  freed. 

Within  the  magic  of  the  Christmas  light, 
Her  soul — like  snow,  blossoms,  foam — is  white ; 
And  her  desire  is  fine, 
Unswerving  as  the  pine. 

After  vision  of  those  freer  places, 
She  fumbles  to  her  feet. 
We  lose  her  in  a  throng  of  faces. 
She  drifts  into  the  crevice  of  a  street. 

The  pine  tree  boughs  divide 
In  search  of  spaces  wide ; 
Life  unsatisfied 
Ascends. 


[18] 


THE  CIRCLE 

MY  grief  comes  back  after  an  interval 
Of  years.     How  strong  it  seems  !     Is  my  defeat 
Assured  and  final  still?     Shall  I  repeat 
My  failure?     Am  I  ever  sorrow's  thrall? 
Sometimes  old  griefs  can  loom  again  so  tall 
We  are  afraid  of  kindness,  and  the  sweet 
New  truth  of  love  we  cannot  bear  to  meet ;  — 
Our  past  would  seem  to  hold  us  after  all. 
We  know  men  go  in  circles  when  they're  lost : 
My  grief  must  prove  that  I  have  gone  astray. 
I  cross  again  the  very  path  I  crossed 
Before!     I  stand  abreast  of  the  old  pain: 
I  am  not  changed.     I  am  as  yesterday, 
And  feel  the  weight  of  my  old  sorrow's  chain. 


[19] 


THE  CROWNING  GIFT 

I  HAVE  had  courage  to  accuse; 
And  a  fine  wit  that  could  upbraid ; 
And  a  nice  cunning  that  could  bruise ; 
And  a  shrewd  wisdom,  unafraid 
Of  what  weak  mortals  fear  to  lose. 

I  have  had  virtue  to  despise 
The  sophistry  of  pious  fools ; 
I  have  had  firmness  to  chastise; 
And  intellect  to  make  me  rules 
To  estimate  and  exorcise. 

I  have  had  knowledge  to  be  true ; 
My  faith  could  obstacles  remove; 
But  now  rny  frailty  I  endue. 
I  would  have  courage  now  to  love, 
And  lay  aside  the  strength  I  knew. 


[20] 


THE  DEEP 

I  MUST  have  peace,  increasing  peace ; 

Oh,  not  a  brave, 
A  fleeting  interval  between 

Each  breaking  wave; 

Oh,  not  a  treacherous  pause  between 

The  gathering  gales ; 
Nor  rest  in  the  white  fleece  of  cloud 

Cold  winter  trails ; 

Oh,  not  a  temporal  winter,  not 

A  fitful  sleep ; 
But  such  a  lasting  winter  as 

Dark  oceans  keep. 

Beneath  all  tides  there  sleeps  a  depth 

Of  cold  fecundity, — 
A  zone  that  spins  and  spins  a  fine 

Transparency. 

There  must  be  such  a  wintry  zone 

For  teeming  thought, 
Where  forms  the  mildest  ray  would  crush 

Are  slowly  wrought; 
[21] 


LATER  POEMS 

Where  floating  shapes  of  stars  and  leaves 

Are  free  to  dwell, 
And  feel  the  quietude  of  Life's 

Eternal  spell. 

I  must  have  peace,  and  so  in  some 

Dark  peace  I  trust, 
Where  thoughts  like  stars  and  leafage  can 

Be  spun  from  dust. 


[22] 


DELIVERANCE 

DELIVERANCE?     You  mean  this  empty  cup 

My  days  keep  filling  up ; 

You  mean  my  future  into  which  keeps  flowing 

Forever  without  my  knowing, 

The  irresistible  current  of  my  past? 


[23] 


THE  DESERTED  SHRINE 

I  WAS  the  temple  for  a  people's  need; 
My  columns  and  my  towers  lifted  bright, 
Expressed  the  soaring  ardours  of  their  creed. 
My  windows  were  the  lanterns  of  their  night ; 
My  naves  were  golden  solitudes  for  prayer ; 
My  sepulchres  enveloped  those  asleep; 
And  I  concealed  the  living  soul's  despair, 
In  vestibules  with  pious  love  replete. 

Through   severed   arch,   the   mournful   wind   I 

hear, 

And  my  lone  pillars  that  will  never  hold 
Aught  but  the  dome  of  heaven,  stand  darkly 

bold, 

Like  the  bare  crags,  that  from  ebb  tides  appear. 
The  mellow,  sheathing  shadows  droop  to  hide 
My  sadness,  and  the  voices  hushed  of  birds, 
Lull  my  deep  slumber,  throbbing,  like  the  words 
Of  love  that  on  forsaken  hearts  abide. 


[24] 


DISCIPLINE 

THESE  forty  days  I  fasted  in 

My  sorrow's  wilderness : 

Hence  I  can  feed  with  sorrow's  thrift 

My  tempted  loneliness. 


DISILLUSION 

ONLY  a  blunder, 

I  mistook  you  for  somebody  else! 

Shall  I  tell  you?     I  thought  you  were  God, 

So  beauteously  you  strode. 

Now  I  wonder; 

I  pay  for  my  folly  with  pain ! 

I  must  bury  my  faith.     But  all  good 

Is  not  dead,  though  I  misunderstood. 


[26] 


DOMINION 

PATRICIAN  overthrown, 
What  lyric  powers  oppose 
The  dogmas  you  intone! 
You  still  would  be  of  those 
Who  rule  by  "  willing  "?  —  No. 
Chaos  within,  I  say, 
Compels  your  star  to  glow 
With  fixed  complacency. 

When  a  bright  star  shall  dance, 
'Twill  be  from  lowly  fires 
That  sting  your  arrogance ! 
Among  the  patient  choirs 
Of  Heaven,  old  Earth  maintains 
Her  meaning.     Dare  to  call 
Her  measure  prose!     Her  strains 
Are  immemorial. 

Earth  gives  you  patronage. 
Yes,  you,  who  have  surpassed 
Her  human  heritage 
Of  wisdom,  the  meek  past 
Enshrouds  and  swaddles.     Are 
You  free  ?     The  Master  ?  —  Yes,— 
[27] 


LATER  POEMS 

Imperial,  titular ;  — 
But  Earth  you  can't  possess !  — 
-  Old  Earth, —  old,  constant  Earth, 
In  whom  is  dancing  thought 
And  song  and  endless  birth 
Of  wonder  —  Earth,  so  old, 
Yet  still  so  new  with  years 
That  none  her  sway  shall  hold 
Except  the  lyric  seers. 


[28] 


EARLY  SNOW 

ABOVE  the  forest  line 
There's  been  a  fall  of  snow 
At  variance  with  autumn's  ray ; 
Yet  trees,  the  color  of  wine, 
Whispered  hours  ago : 
"  Frost  is  on  the  way." 

Oh,  past  our  narrow  view, 
There  comes  a  drift  of  Death, 
To  love,  anomalous  and  strange; 
Yet  whispering  poets  knew: 
They  marked  the  dying  breath, 
Divined  the  law  of  change. 


[29] 


EXPERIENCE 

THERE  is  no  need  for  you  to  cheer  or  nerve 
My  spirit  forward;  for  the  days  advise; 
The  years  have  counselled  me.     I  recognize 
No  change  from  joy  to  sadness.     I  observe 
No  variation.     Like  the  simple  curve 
Earth    follows,    meeting    Spring    and    Winter 

skies, 

My  life  is  one  experience,  implies 
Continuous  truth.     When  it  appears  to  swerve, 
To  mount  from  sadness  into  joy,  or  sink 
To  sadness  with  a  wayward  cruelty, 
'Tis  only  so  to  you  who  watch.     You  think 
That    I    must    feel    contrasting    moods.     You 

name 

Them  joy  and  pain.     You  have  not  skill  to  see 
That  where  I  stand  all  beauty  is  the  same. 


[30] 


THE  EXTRA 

SHELTERED  and  safe  we  sit. 

Our  chairs  are  opposite; 

We  watch  the  warm  fire  burn 

In  the  dark.     A  log  I  turn. 

Across  the  covered  floor 

I  hear  the  quiet  hush 

Of  muffled  steps ;  the  brush 

Of  skirts  ;  —  then  a  closing  door. 

Close  to  you  and  me 

The  clock  ticks  quietly. 

I  know  that  we  exist 
Two  entities  in  Time. 
Our  vital  wills  resist 
Enclosing  night;  our  thoughts 
Command  a  Truth  above 
All  fear,  in  knowing  Love. 

But  a  voice  in  the  street  draws  near ; 
A  wordless  blur  of  sound 
Breaks  like  a  flood  around: 
"  Trust  not  your  hopes,  for  all  are  vain, 
Trust  not  your  happiness  and  pain, 
Trust  not  your  storehouses  of  grain, 
Trust  not  your  strength  on  land  or  sea, 
[31] 


LATER  POEMS 

Trust  not  your  loves  that  come  and  go, 
Trust  only  the  hate  of  the  unknown  foe,- 
War  is  the  one  reality." 

Are  we  awake  or  dreaming? 

On  the  hearth,  the  ashes  are  gleaming. 

Listen,  dear: 

The  clock  ticks  on  in  the  quiet  room, 

It's  all  a  joke,  a  poor  one,  too. 

Or  else  I'm  mad!     This  can't  be  true? 

I  light  the  lamp  to  lift  the  gloom, 

My  world's  too  good  for  such  a  doom. 

One  fact,  if  nothing  else,  I  know, 

I'll  die  sooner  than  have  it  so ! 


[32] 


FOLDED  POWER 

SORROW  can  wait, 

For  there  is  magic  in  the  calm  estate 
Of  grief ;  lo,  where  the  dust  complies 
Wisdom  lies. 

Sorrow  can  rest 

Indifferent,  with  her  head  upon  her  breast ; 
Idle  and  hushed,  guarded  from  fears ; 
Content  with  tears. 

Sorrow  can  bide, 

With  sealed  lids  and  hands  unoccupied. 
Sorrow  can  fold  her  latent  might, 
Dwelling  with  night. 

But  Sorrow  will  rise 

From  her  dream  of  sombre  and  hushed  eternities. 

Lifting  a  Child,  she  will  softly  move 

With  a  mother's  love. 

She  will  softly  rise. 

Her  embrace  the  dying  will  recognize, 
Lifting  them  gently  through  strange  delight 
To  a  clearer  light. 

[33] 


THE  FOREST  FIRE 

THESE  pines  could  feel  the  wind,  the  snow, 

The  April  sun ; 

But  through  them  now  no  changes  flow. 

These  pines  could  feel  the  grief  and  mirth 

Of  quiet  years ; 

But  now  they  know  unchanging  dearth, 

And  they  can  feel  no  mood  of  spring  — 

Like  certain  souls 

Who  find  in  flame  their  blossoming. 


[34] 


THE  FUGITIVE 

FOOL,  Fool, 

They  can  hear  thy  frighted  feet, 
And  they  poke  fun  at  thee, 

Or  pity  thee, 

Or  pity  thee. 

They  can  hear  thy  steps  retreat, 
Shuffling  timidly. 

Thy  gait  is  hobbling  and  uncouth, 
For  stubborn  is  earth's  clay ; 

There  was  a  day, 

There  was  a  day, 

When  from  the  doom  of  its  own  youth, 
Thy  spirit  stole  away. 

Do  they  not  know  thy  spirit's  home? 
Thy  spirit,  glancing,  glides 

Beneath  all  tides, 

Beneath  all  tides. 
It  is  a  coral  under  foam ; 
In  the  cool  deep  it  hides. 

For  lo,  the  yielding  element 
Of  immortality 

[35] 


LATER  POEMS 

Is  like  the  sea, 

Is  like  the  sea. 

Do  they  not  hear,  in  wonderment, 
The  tides  enfolding  thee? 


[36] 


THE  GARDENER 

AT  evening,  I  have  seen  him  wander  in 
And  out  between  the  hedges ; 
On  the  moss  he  treads,  where  shadows  spin 
A  misty  web.     He  skirts  the  edges 
Indistinct  of  heliotrope  and  jessamine. 

I  wonder  what  he  does,  studious 
And  furtive  in  the  gloom. 
Is  he  covering  the  tremulous 
Young  plants  that  have  no  spreading  bloom 
When  night  is  cool,  to  keep  them  young  and 
luminous  ? 

Or  is  he  mutely  speculating  there 
Upon  the  flowers  themselves ; 
His  love  observing  them  through  the  veiled  air 
As  plain  as  when  he  weeds  and  delves 
At  noon,  but  with  more  secret  and  more  wistful 
care  ? 

I  call  the  garden  mine.     This  votary 
Who  loves  it  makes  it  his ; 
A  poet  owns  his  legend.     If  I  were 
To  ask  the  garden  whose  it  is, 
It  would  reply :    "My  master  is  this  gardener." 
[37] 


GRIEF 

EXULTANT  whirlwind  wrung  the  branches ; 

And  the  weak  leaves  were  loosed  with  power. 
I  heard  the  pelting  dissonances ; 

Anguish  in  the  autumn  shower. 

But  living  petals  now  take  wing 

Like  butterflies  with  dusky  flashes; 

April  flutters  her  white  ashes 
Inaudibly,  remembering. 


[38] 


HANDICAPPED 

'Tis  in  a  measure  easy  not  to  plan 

But  simply  to  lie  still  and  brave  all  day 

A  single  discipline.     I've  put  away 

Ambition.     From  a  straight,  a  narrow  span 

Of  life,  a  lofty  quietude  I  scan, 

And  an  unclouded  beauty  I  survey. 

My  hands  are  idle,  but  my  thoughts  can  weigh 

And  prove  what  has  been  true  since  earth  began. 

By  suffering  released  from  self-endeavour, 

I  view  reality,  that  rainbow  skein 

That  is  like  sunlight  and  the  sombre  rain. 

Although  my  body  must  lie  still  forever, 

With  vigorous  will  out  of  myself  I  lean 

And  gather  what  my  body  has  not  seen. 


[39] 


IDLENESS 

I  FEEL  the  stress 

Of  life's  unmeaning  days : 

Oh,  how  the  vain  past  weighs 

My  will  —  the  vacant  seasons  numberless  ! 

The  clear  device 

Intrepid  thoughts  define, — 

The  glowing,  brave  design  — 

Elude  the  weary  shuttle  twice  and  thrice. 

I  lose  the  whole  in  shreds ; 

The  sombre  days  unroll, 

And  I  must  spend  my  dole 

Of  time  untwisting  ravelled  threads. 


[40] 


INDEPENDENCE 

I  LIE  in  wait  that  I  may  steal  a  view 
Of  truth  as  lovely  as  the  spires  of  larch 
Rising  in  limpid  iskies.     But  wandering  March 
Eludes    me    though    I    watch    the    swift    year 

through 

July  to  June:  all  visions  dawn  from  you. 
Though  I  look  steadily  across  the  arch 
Of    my    own    youth;    though    many    splendors 

parch 

My  blood,  your  wisdom,  Sweet,  alone  I  listen  to. 
Yet  I  would  win  a  beauty  all  my  own, 
Too  fine  for  derivation  or  confiding, — 
Surprise  a  truth  your  love  has  never  shown 
My  servile  glance ;  my  themes,  by  living  them, 
Shall  grow  like  laden  branches  from  a  stem, 
And  I  ishall  break  them  off  at  their  dividing. 


LAUGHTER 

THROUGHOUT   his   life  men   seldom   spoke  with 

him; 

They  stood  aloof.     But  he  could  overhear 
Their  laughter  hooting  far  away  and  near, 
With   scornful  intonations.     It    could   dim 
Things  lovely  and  beloved.     Upon  the  rim 
Of  his  most  hallowed  griefs  it  could  appear 
To  mock  with  mirth  and  with  unheeding  cheer. 
He  was  afraid  of  laughter.     Ah,  how  prim, 
How  foolish,  it  could  make  his  prayers !     He 

durst 

Not  improvise  a  loving  God.     In  cloak 
Of  tenderness  could  laughter  lash  his  soul: 
Until  at  last,  with  savage  glee,  it  broke 
From  his  own  trammelled  breast.     He  felt  it  roll 
And  surge  to  his  own  lips  and  quench  his  thirst. 


[42] 


LEISURE 

WHEN  I  have  nothing  else  to  do, 
When  I  am  free,  the  hour  kind, 
I  like  to  lift  reflections  from 
The  pool  of  my  mind. 
I'm  thirsty,  and  I  like  to  drink 
A  wisdom  cool  and  clear ; 
Standing  precautionary,  shy, 
As  lion  or  as  deer. 


[43] 


THE  LION 

I  FEEL  the  lines  of  yellow  sunlight  burn 
My  body,  alternating  with  each  bar 
Of  shadow.     Captive  in  my  cage,  I  yearn 
For  the  large  river  where  somnambular 
I  drank  at  twilight,  listening  lest  some  star 
Betray  me  quenching  the  salt  blood.     But  far 
Is  the  cool  river!     Golden  sun-streaks  burn 
Athwart  my  body,  in  between  each  bar 
Of  shadow.     Now  I  range  in  circular 
Pursuit  of  my  own  power,  now  taciturn, 
I  lie.     My  refluent  sinews  fetters  are; 
And  with  reverberant  fires,  I  lash,  I  spurn 
This  body  which  the  yellow  sun-streaks  burn: 
My  passion  mocks  these  lines  of  cinnabar. 


[44-] 


LOVE 

HUSH,  hush,  O  wind ! 
Between  the  leaves  you  creep, 
You  grope  like  something  blind. 
The  tree  tops  as  they  sleep, 
The  standing  spears  of  grass, 
You'll  touch  them  when  you  pass, 

Still,  still,  O  love! 
My  need  awaits  your  dower, 
My  foolish  heart  your  power ; 
Though  sorrow  dawn  anew 
I  may  not  strive  with  you. 


[45] 


MANUMISSION 

OH,  you  are  free!     When  you  are  satisfied, 
When  you  have  all  my  love  can  give  you  here, 
I  shall  not  keep  you.     Go !     No  faltering  fear 
Of  mine  shall  hinder  you  from  searching  wide 
Unguarded  ways,  forbid  your  spirit  glide 
Beyond  the  harboured  safety  of  each  year 
In  which  I've  loved  you.     Now  you  are  so  near 
That  all  your  dreams  are  mine.     You  cannot 

hide 
The  faintest  dawning  of  your  thought.     How 

should 

You  spare  me  when  you  go?     Yet  you  are  free, 
Oh,  you  are  free,  to  change  or  to  progress ! 
So  be  it  when  you  shall  turn  quietly 
Away  from  me,  you  have  but  understood 
Your  love  can  leave  no  room  for  loneliness. 


[46] 


THE  MOCKING  WIND 

O  WIND,  you  will  not  break  my  house ; 
Though  you  come  to  my  house  in  bodily  form, 
Though  you  tramp  on  the  doorstep  and  over 

the  stone, 
Though  you  knock  on  my  roof  and  my  window 

with  storm. 

O    Wind,    though    you    lift    your    mischievous 

hand, 

Rubbing  your  smooth  palm  over  my  door, 
Though   your    elbows    nudge    the   wall    of   my 

room, 
Though   you   hum   with   contentment   over   my 

floor, — 

O  Wind,  you  will  not  break  my  house ; 
Your  mirth  will  not  shake  the  resting  beams ; 
For  a  slow  and  a  careful  Carpenter 
Built  me  my  house, —  my  house  of  dreams. 


[47] 


THE  MOULD 

No  doubt  this  active  will, 
So  bravely  steeped  in  sun, 
This  will  has  vanquished  Death 
And  foiled  oblivion. 

But  this  indifferent  clay, 
This  fine,  experienced  hand 
So  quiet,  and  these  thoughts 
That  all  unfinished  stand, 

Feel  death  as  though  it  were 
A  shadowy  caress; 
And  win  and  wear  a  frail 
Archaic  wistfulness. 


[48] 


THE  POET 

O  TELL  me,  tell  me, 
How  did  you  drain 
Your  song  to  drops 
Clear  as  rain? 

What  labor,  what  sorrow, 
What  sacrifice, 
Crystal'd  your  song 
To  beryl  ice? 

What  burning  gladness 
Warmed  it  again 
To  a  vapor  sweet, 
Clear  as  rain? 

O  tell  me,  tell  me, 
Melody's  price  — 
Is  it  work,  is  it  pain, 
Is  it  sacrifice? 


[49] 


THE  QUEST 

YOU'VE  been  a  wanderer,  you! 
But  I've  been  a  wanderer,  tool 


You've  seen  the  fine  smoke  rising 
Like  a  fern  uncoiled  in  spring; 
And  through  the  shut  blind  gazing 
You've  seen  the  white  fire  blazing ; 

But  often  I've  knocked  at  your  door 
For  the  love  I've  been  asking  for. 

You've  borne,  in  the  starlit  expanses 
Of  the  hushed  night  sorrowfully  lying, 
Gleams,  like  the  furtive  glances 
Over  one  who  is  dying. 

You've  seen  your  sorrow  enlarge 
Like  a  sphere  to  solitude's  marge ; 
And  you've  gone  in  need  of  bread 
With  thoughts  in  your  heart  instead. 

[50] 


LATER  POEMS 

So  you  think  I've  been  filled,  to  be  sure? 
And  you've  never  guessed  how  poor 
My  leisured  safety  is ! 

How  I  slake  my  thirst  with  song 
To  urge  and  lure  me  along, — 
How  I  look  for  your  melodies ! 


[51] 


REALIZATION 

THERE  is  one  syllable  that  stirs  me :     War ! 
I  picture  what  the  mortal  strife  must  be 
Of  Nations  clad  in  youth  and  bravery. 
I  hear  the  voice  of  human  anguish  more 
Compelling  than  it  ever  was  before. 
Across  the  universe,  beyond  the  sea, 
New  life  is  spilled  into  infinity, 
And  the  waves  tell  it  moaning  on  our  shore. 
How  comes  it  bleaker  sorrow  I  can  bear ; 
The  combat  starkly  drawn,  a  street,  a  square 
Away?     The  souls  intrenched  in  frigid  line 
To  fight  for  purposes  no  kings  define ;  — 
For  purposes  as  grim  to  them  as  life? 
God,  let  me  apprehend  this  nearer  strife! 


[52] 


RELEASE 

O  STARS,  they've  left  me  with  you  here, 
For  their  conspiracy  is  ended. 
The  mockery  of  men  extended 
To  the  edge  of  this  dark  sphere. 

But  now  men  cannot  do  us  harm. 
O  stars,  they've  left  us  now  together; 
They  cannot  hurt  us  now,  whether 
We  feel  them  still  across  the  calm 

Of  thought,  or  seem  to  recognize 
The  white  hands  of  the  flatterer 
In  these  white  clouds  that  mildly  stir 
The  darkness  here  before  our  eyes. 

O  stars,  I  can  fear  nothing  more: 
With  you  there  is  no  loneliness. 
With  you,  against  the  night,  I  press 
My  quiet  spirit  and  adore. 


[53] 


RENEWAL 

CAN  this  be  love  men  yield  me  in  return 

For  what  I  do?     I  hold  a  strange  belief 

That  love  is  not  a  tribute,  nor  a  leaf 

Of  laurel,  nor  a  wage  the  soul  can  earn 

By  any  kind  of  doing.     The  concern 

Of  love  is  need,  and  love  is  the  spare  sheaf 

We    glean   from   pain  —  the   fruit    of   patient 

grief. 

Can  this  be  love  men  yield  me?     Nay.     I  spurn 
Their  recompense  who  could  so  long  refrain 
From  giving.     I  myself  will  grant  the  gift 
And  prove  what  loving  is.      I'll  finer  sift 
My  sorrow,  make  new  songs  distilled  from  pain ; 
Above  this  hour  of  bitterness  I'll  lift 
My  spirit  up  and  taste  my  grief  again ! 


[54] 


THE  SCIENTIST 

WITH  what  fidelity  and  yearning  care 
He  must  accommodate  his  glass ;  in  blind 
Huge  darkness,  till  each  star  be  clear  defined ; 
At  noon-day,  till  each  point  and  leaf  lies  bare; 
Each  crystal  in  each  stone.     He  must  not  spare 
His  days  nor  number  years.     His  eye  must  find 
The  inmost  kernel.     Lo,  his  hands  grow  kind 
With  touching  beauty,  and  his  heart  aware 
Of  curious  things ;  of  life  in  spiral  shells, 
Of  death  in  searching  mould  around  each  tree. 
Desiring  truth,  no  lesser  gift  he  owns. 
Upon  the  lonely  summit  where  he  dwells 
His  soul  delights  in  sifting  stars  and  stones. 
He  asks  no  grace  except  the  grace  to  see. 


[55] 


SEPARATION 

WHEN  intervals  of  solitude  are  done, 
Or  nearly  done,  what  brimming  utmost  bliss ! 
My  wings  disturb  my  lonely  chrysalis 
To  go  to  thee!     I  open  one  by  one, 
To  ease  delight,  thy  casements  to  the  sun; 
Prepare  thy  chamber  where  thy  follies  miss 
Thee,  too ;  then  tip-toe  with  my  treasured  kiss, 
And  love  that  weighs  my  thrilling  breast,  I  run 
To   meet   thy   coming ;  —  pause   in   sweet   sus 
pense 

Too  soon  upon  the  doorstep  —  else  delay ; 
I  almost  see  thee  —  balm  to  aching  sight ! 
What  gladness,  mingling  with  an  equal  sense 
Of  soaring  desolation,  lest  thou  stay 
And  leave  the  house  and  me  deserted  quite! 


[56] 


SONG 

I  LIKE  to  see  the  pebbles  creep 

Into  the  ocean's  hand. 

I  like  to  see  the  water  spread 

Wide  fingers  on  the  sand, 

And  fumble  for  the  emeralds 

The  foaming  ripples  hold, 

Or  grope  among  the  seaweeds  for 

A  clasp  of  coral  cold. 

I  like  to  see  the  ocean  stoop 

And  gather  shining  things: 

Chrysolite  or  pearl  or  just 

A  tiny  shell  with  wings. 


[57] 


SONG 

LOVE  is  like  a  wind  that  passes 

Its  fingers  through  the  blades  and  grasses. 

Love  itself  is  hidden  from  sight, 

But  all  we  see  is  through  its  light ; 

Love  is  like  a  soft  song  sweeping 

The  hills  and  valleys  of  its  keeping; 

Love  is  like  a  white  scythe  gleaning 

Every  meadow's  happy  meaning. 

Oh,  the  meadow's  dream  we  saw  there, 

Soft  enough  so  ferns  could  grow  there! 

Love  is  like  a  flame  unfolding, 

Needs  delight  should  wait  its  moulding, 

Needs  delight  should  wait  while  sorrow 

Makes  it  pure  for  love  to-morrow. 

Love  is  like  a  wind  that  passes 

Its  fingers  through  the  blades  and  grasses. 


[58] 


STAR  SONG 

THERE  are  twisted  roots  that  grow 

Even  from  a  fragile  white  anemone. 

But  a  star  has  no  roots :  to  and  fro 

It  floats  in  the  light  of  the  sky,  like  a  water-lily, 

And  fades  on  the  blue  flood  of  day. 

A  star  has  no  roots  to  hold  it, 

No  living  lonely  entity  to  lose. 

Floods  of  dim  radiance  fold  it ; 

Night  and  day  their  silent  aura  transfuse, 

But  no  change  a  star  can  bruise. 

A  star  is  adrift  and  free. 

When  day  comes,  it  floats  into  space  and  com 
plies  ; 

Like  a  spirit  quietly, 

Like  a  spirit,  amazed  in  a  wider  paradise 
At  mortal  tears  and  sighs. 


[59] 


TEMPTATION 

You  feel  the  witchery  of  Life,  the  call 

Of  a  disturbing  beauty ;  you  respond 

And  view  forbidden  mysteries  beyond 

The  soul  whose  orbit  seems  to  you  so  small. 

But  I  am  not  thus  tempted :  not  by  all 

Life's  dear  implied  seductions.     No,  a  bond 

Of  thought  subdues  me ;  rather  am  I  fond 

Of  quietness,  of  safeties  which  enthrall; 

Of  self-enshrining  loneliness.     I  fail 

To  make  the  gesture  Life  awaits ;  withhold 

A  motion  of  the  hand,  a  word,  a  kiss, 

A  glance  of  plain  avowal.     Standing  cold, 

Aloof,  the  tempered  silences  prevail, 

And  steeped  in  dreams  I  lose  authentic  bliss. 


[60] 


THOUGHT 

THOUGHT  is  fragrant  like  shining  grass  ; 
It  makes  for  our  spirits  a  lovely  mead ; 
As  animals  taste  the  grass  in  shadow 
On  pensive  lawns,  our  spirits  feed. 

There  are  seasons  when  thought  lies  hidden  and 

cold, 

As  in  winter  the  grass  lies  under  the  snow ; 
But  the  springtime  of  thought  is  unforeseen, 
For  our  fitful  need  it  seems  to  grow. 

Thought  is  most  often  like  shining  grass ;  — 
But  thought  has  a  varied  form  and  way ; 
It  is  like  the  round  leaf  of  a  violet, 
Or  the  feathery  line  of  a  fir-tree  spray. 


[61] 


TO  MY  POET 

DEAR  Poet  of  the  swift  imperial  ways, 

The  overtones  of  thy  melodious  showers 

Are  mine,  and  shadows  of  thy  leaning  flowers  ; 

My    thoughts    are    emulous    of    thy    thought 

sprays. 

Thou  art  the  shepherd  of  my  humble  days. 
The  faint  subsiding  impulse  of  thy  powers 
Reverberates  and  stirs  my  silent  hours ; 
My  partial  words  are  thy  remembered  lays. 

When  Jesus  gave  the  loaves  to  the  meek  throng, 
They    fared,    and    there    were    basketsful    be 
sides  — 

The  fragments  fallen  from  his  grace  benign, 
Abundant  —  since,  dear  Poet,  love  divides, 
A  portion  of  thy  opulence  is  mine, 
I  gather  from  thy  plenitude  of  song. 


[62] 


TYRANNY 

THIS  One  I  feared  is  powerless  become. 

Shut  lids  conceal  the  leer,  the  lips  are  dumb, 

And  the  satiric  laugh,  that  used  to  scare 

Delight  away,  is  silent.     Yes,  I  dare 

Consider  him  disabled,  vincible. 

And  yet,  as  though  I  were  responsible, 

My  will  to  blame  for  keeping  him  in  bonds 

Of  unrelenting  frost,  I  fear,  I  fear 

Him  still.     This  mould,  marmoreal,  austere, 

Assumed  in  death,  needs  love  to  read  it,  yes, 

Needs  love.     For  love  to  the  frail  flesh  responds, 

And  pities  even  cruelty,  when  strife 

Has  nurtured  it.     But  sleeping  powerless, 

Of  all  reproach  or  pardon  unaware  — 

It  is  as  though  my  love  were  lying  there. 

The  taunt  of  silence  takes  my  life  —  my  life. 


[63] 


UNCERTAINTY 

SOMETIMES  a  phrase 

That  Ariel  sings 

Is  audible.     Though  wings 

Make  sighing  music,  fainter  things 

Are  Ariel's  lays. 

I  think  I've  known 

The  gradual  drift 

Of  tones  that  pauses  lift, 

As  petals  through  a  pleached  rift 

Are  softly  blown. 


[64] 


THE  VOICE 

I  HEAR  His  voice  and  the  sea's  voice : 
Two  melodies. 

His  voice  that  melted  long  ago 
In  spaces  gold, 

Unanswered  and  unechoed, —  and 
The  soft  sea-fold. 

Why  did  He  always  walk  beside 
The  singing  sea, 

Where  speech  unheeded  fades  like  foam 
In  mystery? 

Is  love  in  truth  a  spoken  word, 
A  cadence  clear, 

A  voice  that  lapses  in  loud  space 
For  none  to  hear? 

Then  why  His  voice  and  the  sea's  voice : 
Two  melodies? 


[65] 


THE  WEAKLING 

CONFINED  within  the  walls  of  a  grey  world, 
And  never  from  that  iron  realm  allowed, 
My  powers  were  wasted ;  I  was  broken,  bowed ; 
Throughout   the   years   my   strength   and   will 

were  furled. 

But  later,  when  the  force  of  time  had  hurled 
All  barriers  down,  released  me  from  the  cloud 
That  held  my  spirit,  left  me  free,  endowed 
With  latitudes  of  love,  my  spirit  whirled 
Bewildered  round  itself.     In  that  clear  field 
I  had  not  strength  nor  will  to  stand  revealed, 
Nor  claim  deliverance.      Self-pity  drew 
Me  to  my  doom.     I  was  beset  anew ; 
I  was  afraid  —  afraid  that  love  would  see 
What  all  those  iron  years  had  done  to  me. 


[66] 


WINTER  POETRY 

LOVERS  think  that  they  alone  possess 
A  sense  of  beauty.     They  ascribe  all  graces 
To  their  love ;  seeing  earth's  wintry  places 
Warmed    and    enchanted,    they    suppose    and 

guess 

Their  own  illusion  makes  the  loveliness. 
They  dream  their  flame  illumines  the  dim  spaces 
Of  the  sky ;  they  think  the  earth  embraces 
No  charm  but  that  their  pleasure  can  express. 
Yet  we,  who  shun  romance,  find  beauty  near ; 
A  stillness  in  the  air  when  summer's  gone ; 
On  the  fine  winter  stem  hang  subtle  fruits ; 
We  like  to  see  the  slender  willow  spear ; 
We  like  red  weeds  and  branches  blackly  drawn, 
And  the  white  snow  embroidered  with  brown 

roots. 


[67] 


WINTER  SONG 

THROUGH  moveless  pines  I  hear  the  air 
Rolling  like  a  silken  flood, 
And  the  clear  note  of  a  lonesome  bird 
Piping  a  quiet  word. 

Bowing  shadows  weigh  the  snows ; 
In  every  bush  the  sunshine  flows. 
Winter,  solemn  though  it  is, 
Distils  deep  mysteries. 

We,  who  must  grow  poor  and  old, 

Since  our  loveliest  hours  in  childhood  were  told, 

We,  to  whom  visions  in  youth  were  shown 

Clear  and  crowning  as  dawn, 

Must  sift  and  sift  to  a  single  theme, 

To  a  lyric  line,  the  truth  of  our  dream. 

When  age  and  the  winter  night  are  long, 

We  must  simplify  our  song. 


[68] 


WORDS 

WORDS  are  the  stones  I  use  in  building, 

My  house  will  be  strong  without  fillet  or  gilding ; 

I  dig  in  the  crypt  of  the  centuries 

Where  the  earth  is  rich  in  ebonies. 

I  burrow  for  words  in  the  quarry  of  time, 

In  the  heart  of  the  ancient  hills  for  rhyme. 

There    are    veins    of    Beauty    the    sages    have 

known : 

Milton  worked  where  the  marble  shone ; 
Our  Lincoln  found  what  he  liked  in  the  clay 
Of  the  common  fields  where  the  stones  are  grey. 
So  every  spirit  must  find  a  way 
And  delve  for  the  treasure  that  seems  its  own. 

But  you !  what  are  words,  what  are  words  to 

you! 

Not  stone  nor  metal  precious  and  true, 
Nor  blocks  to  serve  in  a  hallowed  shrine, 
But  seductive  jewels  cut  subtle  and  fine, 
Spangles  you  wear  to  glitter  and  shine; 
I  know  the  worth  of  your  words  to  you ! 


[69] 


POEMS  FROM  THE  GATES  OF 
UTTERANCE 


THE  GAim>  OF  UTTERANCE 

THERE  is  a  throng  within  the  gates, 
A  pressing,  diverse  throng ;  — 

Without,  a  peaceful  throng  awaits, 
To  which  I  would  belong. 

Within  the  gates  the  varied  folk 

Advise  discordantly ;  — 
Without,  the  poet-crowds  convoke 

To  council  harmony. 

Within  the  gates  are  all  the  heights 
And  depths  of  serried  powers ; 

But  when  a  lyric  theme  invites, 
I  reach  outlying  bowers 

Where  dwell  the  bards  of  quiet  years ; 

I  join  my  song  to  theirs ; 
My  glad,  unfettered  spirit  hears 

The  melody  it  shares. 


[73] 


THE  RIDERS 

You  look  askance  at  me. 
Do  you  take  my  horse 
For  Pegasus?     Of  course 
He  steps  like  Poetry, 
But  he's  a  quiet  beast. 
I  think  I  hear  you  say 
You  don't  like  in  the  least 
His  fleet-footed  way. 

But  your  light  flitting  mare 
Skims  the  meadows  too. 
Her  nimble  feet  pursue 
The  stony  dales,  dare 
The  sloping  pastures,  leap 
The  brooks.     You  do  the  things 
I  do  in  dreams,  asleep  — 
(Pegasus  has  wings)  ! 

You  canter  wide-awake. 
Your  mare  is  real ;  my  steed 
Imaginary.     Need 
You  then  suspect  me?     Take 
[74] 


EARLIER  POEMS 

The  cloud-rack  by  my  side ! 
Partners,  Life  and  Art, 
Adventurers,  we  ride 
To  rhythms  in  heaven's  heart. 


[75] 


COMPENSATION 

You  never  told  me,  never,  yet  I  know 
You  hold  a  sadness  in  disguise,  unseen 
Behind  the  days  and  years  that  intervene 
Since  you  renounced  ambition  long  ago. 
Whence  comes  the  tender  love  that  you  bestow 
To  feed  our  loves?     Behind  your  self  serene 
There  burns  a  golden  passion, —  how  you  screen 
With  radiant  life  the  flame  you  must  forego ! 
Then  you  assume  our  love  is  ample  meed, 
Atonement, —  oh,  I  wonder  any  deed 
Of  ours  can  ease  your  spirit's  lassitude, 
Or  lift  your  lonely  heart !     Our  stars  elude 
Your  sun  that  made  them  bright  —  your  soli 
tude. 
Deprived,  no  boon  avails  to  fill  your  need. 


[76] 


REALITY 

WHAT  things  are  real? 

This  falling,  falling  rain, 
This  garden  where 

My  flowers  droop  again? 

Or  simply  dreams, 
Dreams  asleep  in  me 

Until  I  join 

Their  silent  company? 


[77] 


THE  BAT 

OVER  the  river  of  sorrow 
Spread  thy  drab  wings  wide. 
Cool  is  the  river.     Glide 
Between  the  trees.     Borrow 
The  prudent  feet  of  the  fleeing 
Beast.     Thy  pinions  blend 
With  leaves.     O  thou  All-Seeing, 
Be  night's  obedient  friend! 

To  a  gloomy  bat,  all  sorrow 

Is  cool  and  sombre  and  sweet. 

So  no  wonder  thou  fearest  to  meet 

The  feline  light  of  to-morrow. 

When  out  from  the  east  a  glimmer 

Of  twilight  corals  thy  wings, 

Thy  vision  grows  dimmer  and  dimmer, 

Thou  dreamer  of  dusky  things ! 

When  morning  comes  out  from  the  east, 
Advancing  with  stealthy  ray, 
Thy  wheeling  wings  betray 
Thy  presence,  Bird-and-Beast, 
Soaring  to  dismal  bowers 
With  smoke-like  motion.     Gladness, 
[78] 


EARLIER  POEMS 

Flame-like,  heaps  through  the  hours 
Thine  ashen  sorrow  and  sadness. 

Blinded  by  noon-day  splendor, 
Unseeing  till  darkness  return, 
Thy  cinereous  pinions  yearn 
For  stone-colored  night.     Surrender 
Thy  spirit.     Is  not  the  sighing 
Monotony  sweet?     Maybe 
Creation  is  what  we  call  dying, 
As  daylight  is  darkness  to  thee. 


[79] 


THE  AUDIENCE 

INTENTLY  leans  the  avid  sage 

We  name  The  Audience.     His  mood 

Invites  a  vigorous  prelude 

Of  sound,  the  silence  to  assuage, — 

The  silence  in  sequestered  sources 
Of  his  being.      (Albeit  his  mind 
And  soul  and  heart  may  be  like  wind- 
Awakened  rivers  in  their  courses.) 

In  clear,  attenuated  line, 
The  violin  a  theme  avers. 
It  is  this  theme  as  it  recurs 
That  forms  the  plenary  design, — 

This  theme,  which  the  composer's  love 
Could  never  deal  with  twice  the  same ; 
Submissive  cellos  now  proclaim 
It ;  louder  clarions  above 

Now  give  it  wise  embellishment. 
In  unsuspected  ways,  all  strings 
And  pipes  resume  it,  altering 
Their  rhythms  to  be  more  eloquent. 
[80] 


EARLIER  POEMS 

The  strange,  concurrent  harmonies 
Provoke  The  Audience  to  pleasure, 
Lead  by  phrase  and  clustered  measure 
To  the  peace  of  cadences. 

The  Audience  thinks  in  terms  of  tone ; 
The  curious  intellect  pursues 
The  flowing  lines  and  shadowy  hues 
Of  sound,  akin  to  sculptured  stone ; 

Mind  estimates.     But  in  between 
The  mind  and  soul  an  interim 
Is  brimmed  with  intonations  dim : 
The  soul  itself  is  left  serene. 

Who  can  express  what  music  is 
To  soul?     A  cloud  becomes  cascade 
And  stirs  a  river  winter-weighed 
With  frost.     The  massive  images 

Of  mountains,  on  whose  purple  ground 
The  falling  water  carves  a  line 
Of  white,  as  narrow  and  as  fine 
As  winter  floods  when  first  unbound, 

Remind  one  of  the  soul  when  sound 
Traverses  it.     Music  is  spring 
To  soul,  April's  awakening, 
A  freedom  and  a  peace  profound. 
[81] 


EARLIER  POEMS 

But  what  is  music  to  the  heart  ? 
A  trouble,  a  vicissitude, 
A  dream  no  cadence  will  conclude. 
In  it  the  surging  sounds  of  Art 

Stay  ever  unresolved.     They  are 
Beginning  only,  origin, 
Inchoate  symphony  within 
A  symphony  of  sky  and  star. 

There  is  no  answer,  thus  and  thus, 
That  present  players  can  impart 
To  the  long-listening,  searching  heart ; 
But  answers  multitudinous. 

The  avid  sage,  The  Audience, 
Is  wrapped  in  his  own  silence  dim. 
The  mind,  the  soul,  the  heart  in  him 
Observe  the  circling  consonance 

Of  chords.     These  grow  more  intricate 
Each  time  they  are  resumed,  and  still 
One  chosen  theme  the  tones  fulfill, 
One  motion  they  delineate. 

So  God  reveals  Himself  to  me. 
I  am  His  audience;  I  hear 
With  mind  and  soul  and  heart  His  clear 
Progressive  theme  perpetually. 
[82] 


TO  FRANCE 

OH,  still  I  dream  of  thee,  my  France !     The  sun 
Irradiates  thy  meadows.     Stalks  of  grain 
And  aureate  beams  infusing  them  are  one. 
There  is  a  harmony  that  links  thy  plain 
To  quiet  skies ;  that  weaves  a  slender  chain 
Of   living   vine   with    wavering   light.     Where 

cease 

Thy  level  spaces,  hills  dim  clouds  detain ; 
And  in  thy  south,  where  seasons  find  increase, 
The  sheaves,  like  kneeling  women,  praise  thy 

peace. 

Unwilling  and  reluctant  are  my  dreams, 

To  recognize  transforming  destinies. 

I  dream  of  thee,  my  France ;  of  mellow  beams 

That  ripen  happiness;  of  ample  skies 

That   frame   thy   far    perspectives.     Meadows 

rise 

To  them  by  poplar  spans.     Upon  thy  ways 
I  see  the  cross.     The  gentle  Saviour  dies 
With   arms   athwart    the    cloud.     As    heavenly 

rays 

Touch  earth,  His  love  a  sense  of  light  conveys. 
[83] 


EARLIER  POEMS 

Is  happiness  no  more  than  disguise, 

A  sheathing  dream  reality  must  wear? 

If  so,  away  with  joyful  mockeries! 

My  France,  in  desolation  thou  art  fair. 

Thy  trampled  poppies  and  thy  fields  laid  bare 

Express  a  beauty  that  prosperity 

Concealed.     Thy  joys   are  fallen;   fate  would 

spare 

No  ornament  of  peace.     But  I  can  see 
The  strange  unfolding  of  thy  destiny. 

I  love  thee,  and  would  know  thee  as  indeed 
Thou  art.     No  scythe,  a  sword  embraces  wheat, 
The  poplars  on  thy  margin  seem  to  heed 
No  more  the  wind  that  made  their  stems  throb 

sweet 

As  lyre  strings.     The  stars  alone  entreat. 
Thy  vine  is  severed  and  thy  grape  is  blood ; 
Thy  sheaves   are  souls.     Thy   rising  meadows 

meet 

The  sky  like  surging  waves  of  a  dark  flood, 
And  shadow  closes  every  quickening  bud. 

My  France,  my  France,  in  darkness  I  begin 
To  know  the  light  that  only  faith  can  shed 
Upon  thy  ways.     As  joy  and  beauty  win 
Through  death,  so  thou  shalt  win.     Art  thou 
not  fed, 

[84] 


EARLIER  POEMS 

Though  fields  are  bare,  with  spiritual  bread  ? 
The  star-strewn  shadow  crowns  and  dignifies 
Thy  young,  submissive  God  of  the  bowed  head. 
How  newly  does  thy  sorrow  harmonize 
With  His,  whose  loving  arms  enfold  the  skies ! 


[85] 


APPROACH 

APPARELLED  in  a  mask  of  joy  till  now, 
I  knew  thee  not.     Asleep,  I  see  thy  face 
More  simply.      Sorrow's  leisure  lets  me  trace 
Tho  nicer  lines.     Thy  sealed  lids,  thy  brow, 
Thv  lasting-  posture,  purposes  avow; 
In  thy  spent  form  resides  a  moveless  grace. 
^  pageant  was  thy  life,  and  in  its  place 
T  find  a  truth  to  feed  and  to  endow 
My  heart.     Thy  wonted  mask  of  joy  belied 
The  meaning  death's  bare  attitude  makes  clear. 
From  living  gesture  thought  went  often  wide, 
And  T  was  poor  interpreter:  but  here, 
Where  it  would  seem  our  thoughts  anew  divide, 
The  steady  silence  draws  thy  spirit  near. 


[86] 


DEFINITION 

As  clouds  lie  in  the  west, 
My  fairest  pleasures  rest 
In  you,  their  element 
Of  being.  Loath  to  die, 
They  ornament  your  sky, 
Amassed,  magnificent. 

They  shun  the  realms  beyond. 
Are  you  not  their  fond, 
Fair  dwelling  by  consent 
Of  time?     Why  should  they  go 
And  vanish  quite,  as  though 
They  were  not  all-content? 

My  pleasures  are  not  love, 
Else  like  the  clouds  above 
They  swiftly  would  relent. 
They  are  mild  beauty ;  dim 
Resistless  thought ;  and  whim, 
And  idle  blandishment. 

Love  is  a  wilful  power, 
More  like  the  wind  or  shower 
In  which  the  cloud  is  spent. 
[87] 


EARLIER  POEMS 

My  pleasures  only  screen 
The  space  of  light  serene 
In  your  deep  firmament. 


[88] 


EMBLEMS 

WHERE  sweet  ferns  blow,  where  hemlock  shad 
ows  lie, 
Where  peaks  of  pine  o'er  oak-twined  branches 

reach, 

In  groves  where  bend  the  poplar  and  the  beech, 
Where  emerald  willows  touch  the  emerald  sky, 
They  come  to  us,  the  Lost  Ones.     Far  and  high 
The  winds  among  the  trees  lift  muffled  speech, 
And  tell  the  hidden  past ;  we  question  each 
Entreating  form  those  winds  identify. 
Below  the  hill  they  huddle  stone  by  stone, 
The  lost  ones  and  the  loved  ones  we  have  known, 
Who  followed,  fearless,  ways  where  beauty  led ; 
But  here  upon  the  hilltop,  winds  intone 
The  foregone  past.     Oh,  let  us  think  instead, 
The  living  trees  are  emblems  of  our  dead ! 


[89] 


THE  POET'S  THRIFT 

MY  landscape  only  need  comprise  low  hills, 
For  these  are  eminent  and  limitless 
To  me.     They  mean  more  than  my  dreams  ex 
press  ; 

They  mean  more  than  my  word  or  deed  fulfils. 
The  slender  trees,  the  tuneless  whip-poor-wills, 
Impart  quite  ample  themes  to  loneliness. 
I  find  enough  in  scant  elusiveness 
Of  springs  and  little  brooks.     My  spirit  thrills 
To  beauty,  unprepared  for  the  sublime. 
I  wonder,  though,  when  I  shall  be  completed 
Even  to  transcribe  these  hills?     Sometime 
This  landscape  in  few  lines  will  show  to  me 
The  subtle  mysteries  I  have  entreated, 
In  the  simple  realm  of  poetry. 


[90] 


SOLICITUDE 

To  me  your  transport  is  a  dim  surmise, 
A  vague,  imagined  bliss.     But  I  will  brace 
Myself  to  life ;  though  languid  for  the  chase, 
Will  gird  my  grief.     Where  your  swift  pleasure 

flies  — 

Beneath  whatever  mirth-alluring  skies  — 
I'll  follow,  lest  you  pause  in  darkling  space. 
Oh,  let  me  gather  stars,  and  turn  your  face 
To  these,  lest,  meeting  night,  you  breathe  faint 

sighs ! 

Is  joy  illusion?     This,  in  sooth,  is  clear, — 
The  pause  of  weariness ;  and  should  I  hear 
You  drop  a  single  sombre  semitone 
From  Paradise,  I'd  gather  every  star; 
For  I  divine  what  it  must  be  to  mar 
This  wonder  that  my  breast  has  never  known. 


[91] 


ASPIRATION 

THOUGH  my  frail  soul  should  never  touch  again 

The  semblance  of  reality  like  this; 

Through  periods  of  time  should  always  miss 

The  imprint  of  true  life ;  nor  find  the  plain, 

Familiar  mould  of  being;  still  not  vain 

Are  those  desires  that  frame  undying  bliss. 

The  sky  is  not  a  vanishing  abyss 

To  me,  but  steadfast  beauty,  sheathing  pain. 

I  live  in  confidence.     As  planets  turn 

About  the  sun,  continually  I  yearn 

To  God.     His  interpenetrating  fire 

Is  all  I  need.     Though  heaven  prove  mockery, 

My  life  ascends  by  dint  of  sheer  desire, 

Imbued  with  hopes  of  immortality. 


[92] 


JOY 

How  shall  I  make  of  joy  discovery? 

For  is  it  not  an  orbit  that  enspheres 

The  heart?     Like  misty  heaven,  as  one  nears, 

The  circuit  spreads  ;  and  like  the  flowing  sea 

Whose  waves  evolve  a  scroll  of  mystery, 

Its  vague  development  eludes  the  seers. 

It  is  a  garment  like  the  shrouding  years, — 

A  dusky  shield,  a  cloudy  canopy, 

Illumined  by  the  soul  that  stands  beneath. 

It  must  forever  amplify,  deploy, 

Give  spirit  space, —  that's  all  I  know  of  joy. 

It  is  a  hovering  defence,  a  sheath, 

In  which  the  spirit  comes  to  flowering, 

A  folding  and  a  cool  enfolded  wing. 


[93] 


EDUCATION 

I  HAD  lived  many  years  when  first  I  met 

What  men  call  Sorrow.     I  had  long  conceived 

A  semblance  of  it,  thought  I  had  achieved 

That  magnitude,  when  side  by  side  I  set 

My  lonely  days.     I  knew  the  alphabet 

Of  Life's  experience,  and  I  believed 

That  when  I  touched  another's  grief, 

I  grieved ;  — 

But  when  at  last  I  was  myself  beset, 

I  marvelled.     Little  had  I  known.     They  told 

Me  and  they  showed  me  death,  but  finally, 

Like  shifting  clouds  no  foresight  can  explain, 

I  felt  the  changeful  years  envelop  me. 

I  was  not  loath  to  meet  at  last  with  pain, 

But  oh,  to  feel  the  youth  my  age  could  hold ! 


[94] 


PROGRESSION 

THE  resonance  of  wind  and  wave 

Is  put  to  music  by  the  tide ; 
So  passion  modulates  to  verse, 

And  moves  in  rhythm's  quiet  stride. 

The  bards  in  realms  enchanted  hold 
Familiar  converse,  like  the  birds; 

Repeat  emotion,  improvise, 

Sustain  the  fundamental  words, — 

Until,  forsaking  pastorals, 

They  must  pursue  Life's  ampler  prose,- 
A  continuity  of  song 

The  heart's  experience  only  knows. 


[95] 


INTUITION 

RHYTHMS  of  exultation  flow 
In  dusky  regions  far  behind 
The  formal  meadows  of  the  mind. 
Sighs  waft  syllables,  as  blow 
The  winds  the  grasses  to  and  fro. 

The  shape  of  cloud,  as  thought  effaces 
Dream,  eclipses  the  moon's  lustre. 
My  winged  stars,  like  swallows,  cluster 
In  the  deep  enchanted  spaces 
That  imagination  traces. 


[96] 


KINDRED 

WHAT  inequality ! 

The  apple  trees  and  stones 

Are  kindred.     Love,  the  stormy  aeons 

Have  made  my  spirit  bleak  and  grey. 

Like  sun-emblazoned  leaves 
Or  blossoms  in  the  spring, 
Your  loveliness,  o'ershadowing, 
A  garland  for  my  spirit  weaves. 


[97] 


RESIGNATION 

THE  dark  house  yonder  is  my  life ; 

It  looms  against  the  purple  night; 
The  windows  are  my  stars ;  I  count 

Them  all, —  each  window  one  delight. 

Oh !  there  are  many  stars  above, 
But  mine  in  strong  substantial  woe 

Are  framed;  I  cannot  misconstrue 
Life's  dark  intent,  joy's  fitful  glow. 


[98] 


SOLACE  OF  SEASONS 

COLD  winter  finds  no  word  of  condolence. 

I  laid  my  grief  where  pastures  bright  in  spring 

Bore  panacea,  with  young  life  whispering; 

I  laid  my  grief  in  summer  by  the  side 

Of  a  deep  sea  that  brought  a  healing  tide ; 

When  autumn  came,  I  laid  it  in  a  cloud ; 

The  strong  wind  bore  it  in  that  balmy  shroud : 

Cold  winter  finds  no  word  of  condolence. 

When  skies  above  are  bleak,  I  will  not  care ; 
A  flame  I'll  kindle  for  my  chill  despair, 
A  flame  within  my  heart,  for  condolence. 


[99] 


THE  FOUNTAIN 

MY  garden  fountain  sings  to-night, 
Its  margin  is  all  moist  with  spray, — 

That  snow-white  marble  margin  where 
A  white  rose  dreams  of  drooping  day. 

Upon  the  rose  fall  rhythmic  drops, 

Snow-cool  from  the  pale  fountain's  crest,- 

Drops  cooler  than  the  shadows  when 
The  sun  leads  day-spring  to  the  west. 

Unto  the  rose,  my  fountain's  rim 

Is  ample  joy,  while  I,  through  tears, 

Can  see  my  garden  growing  dim, 

And  dream  of  sorrow's  girding  spheres. 


[100] 


THE  THRESHOLD 

I  THREADED  endless  aisles 
Of  level  trees,  of  spare, 
Undeviating  wood ; 
I  penetrated  streets 
Of  houses  parallel; 
I  crossed  a  common  where 
My  day  paused  sentinel ; 
At  evenfall  I  stood 
Before  the  dim  defiles 
Of  dusk,  where  light  retreats, 
Immured  in  sombre  ward. 
The  sheathed  sun  went  down ; 
Opaque  was  heaven's  frown ; 
Mountains,  looming  grey, 
Framed  the  threshold  —  yea  - 
The  portal  to  the  Lord. 


[101] 


THE  HERMIT 

I  MARK  the  hermit's  den, 
And  ponder  why  he  fled 

So  far  from  other  men ; 

Why  chose  to  make  his  bed 

In  lonely  Nature's  fen. 

For  surely  he  must  tread 
On  yearnings  even  there; 

And  he  must  see  —  outspread 
The  vital  branches  bear 

The  burden  of  Christ  dead. 


[102] 


THE  HYPOCRITE'S  REWARD 

WHEN  came  his  final  judgment, 
God  gave  him  for  his  prize 

The  crown,  the  single  sceptre, 
He'd  worn  as  his  disguise. 

The  crown,  the  single  sceptre, 
A  new,  familiar  shame ; 

For  when  he  came  to  judgment, 
He  wore  them  in  God's  name. 


[103] 


TESTIMONY  OF  HANDS 

Is  every  day  the  judgment  day? 
A  thousand  mortals  lift  on  high 

A  throng  of  hands  that  plead  and  pray ; 
Beneath  a  space  of  quiet  sky, 
Their  several  gestures  testify. 

Oh,  mark  the  wistful  hand  that  holds 
A  sorrow  in  its  upturned  palm ; 

The  gentle  hand  that  firmly  folds 
Across  the  breast  to  make  it  calm ! 
Oh,  mark  the  hand  by  which  the  balm 

Of  youth  was  scattered,  eloquent 
As  the  grey  leaf  upon  the  tree 

When  summer's  mellow  joy  is  spent! 
Above  that  throng  of  hands,  oh,  see 
The  Hand  that  plies  eternity! 


[104] 


TRANSMISSION 

A  SHELL,  expressed  the  verity 

In  tones  more  limpid  than  the  sea, — 

Distilled  the  sea's  infinity. 

A  mellow  leaf  disclosed  the  true 
In  more  than  sun's  pellucid  hue, 
The  sun  was  tinged  in  passing  through. 

A  wing  revealed  the  sky  unseen, 
Till  motion  made  the  air  serene, — 
A  wing  —  a  soaring  life,  I  mean. 


[105] 


PREPARATION 

A  TIME  will  come  when  I  shall  breathe 

New  melodies  to  soothe  and  fold, 
Like  portions  of  a  mellow  sheath, 

My  sorrow.     While  my  songs  withhold 
Their  tones,  I  pause  before  the  years ; 

I  gaze  on  the  grey  world ;  I  strive 
To  clear  the  mist  of  doubting  tears. 

—  My  songs,  what  music  you'll  derive 
From  silence  in  the  time  to  come ! 


[106] 


EGYPT 

How  still  is  Egypt,  as  a  corpse's  breast; 

Her  power  is  muffled,  stone  on  stone ; 
The  sinews  of  her  kingdom  lie  at  rest ; 

Her  deserts  wake  no  pulse's  moan. 

The  Nile  is  like  an  adamantine  sea ; 

Sky's  cloud  and  star,  like  soundless  flame ; 
The  moon  in  silence  mourns  eternity, 

And  calls  blind  man  with  magic  claim. 

The  hushed,  impenetrable  fear,  the  peace 
Of  wings,  the  palm's  inwoven  spray, 

Are  like  death's  pause  before  the  soul's  release 
Into  another  golden  day! 


[107] 


DUSK 

As  flowers  at  dusk  their  choicest  perfumes  hold, 
Some  hearts  hoard  beauty  when  the  body's  old: 
I  see  an  age-bent  woman  lead  the  herd 
To  pasture,  with  no  need  of  guiding  word, 

While  the  dull  beasts  in  the  tall  grasses  browse, 
Inside     her     soul     the     earth's     enchantments 

drowse ; 

The  needles  pause  between  her  wasted  hands, 
For  light  is  always  mellow  where  she  stands. 

No  motion  marks  her  life's  harmonious  dream ; 
It  is  a  part  of  Nature's  quiet  theme. 
Each  day  renews  the  uneventful  past, 
Although  her  spirit  nears  a  change  at  last. 

From  the  grey  threshold  of  her  silent  home 
One  night,  her  spirit,  kin  to  evening's  shade, 
Will  float  away  from  crevices  life  made, 
Like  seaweed  from  a  cliff  into  white  foam. 


[108] 


CONFLICT 

DIVIDED  by  the  dark, 

Our  foils  converge.     A  spark 

You  kindled  not,  My  Enemy, 

A  spark  I  never  drew 

From  bitter   fires   that   sear  me   through   and 

through, 
Gleams  fitfully. 

That  spark,  that  little  light, 

Is  lit  where  foils  unite. 

It  lives  in  spite  of  us,  My  Foe; 

In  intervening  space, 

This  little  eye  that  darts  from  place  to  place 

Sees  clear,  I  know. 

Opinions  are  not  one, 

And  man's  criterion 

Is  not  in  us.     Between,  above, 

The  cross  that  weapons  frame, 

My  Adversary,  gleams  a  truth  whose  name 

Might  still  be  Love. 


[109] 


TO  THE  CROWD 

WHEN  I  hold  a  budding  pleasure 
In  my  heart,  can  I  diffuse  it? 

No ;  you  want  the  musk  full-measure, 
Not  the  bud, —  so  you  refuse  it. 

When  I  hold  an  ebbing  sorrow, 
Can  I  share  the  balm  with  you? 

No ;  you  want  no  lessening  morrow, 
But  meridian's  deepest  hue. 

Blossom  of  my  joy  completest, 
Zenith  of  my  sorrow's  hour, 

Yours.     So  I  may  keep  the  sweetest : 
Buds  and  lees  —  ambrosial  power. 


[110] 


AUTUMN 

CAPRICIOUS  little  poem  and  sapling  rhyme 
Grew  on  the  golden  hillside  of  my  youth. 
The  stanzas  were  as  crooked  and  uncouth 
As  early  things  are  wont  to  be.     For  time 
Was  pressing  and  mid-summer's  glowing  prime 
Was  ever  imminent.     Mysterious  truth 
Was  the  warm  soil  thought  sprouted  from. 

Forsooth 

My  songs  were  stem  and  filament  to  climb. 
But  now,  the  memory  of  bud  and  fruit 
And  flower  is  weariness.     This  present  week 
In  mid-September,  wayward  wild  pursuit 
Is  over;  youth  fulfilled.     How  shall  they  seek 
Beyond,  unless  from  sunbeams  in  the  skies 
These  listless  leaves  take  warmer  harmonies? 


[in] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

Gladys  and  Dorothea  Cromwell  were  so  essen 
tially  one  that  any  account  of  either  must  in 
clude  the  other.  Neither  ever  used  the  singular 
pronoun,  and  those  who  knew  them  fairly  well 
often  doubted  to  which  sister  they  were  speak 
ing.  Indeed  when  it  was  suggested  to  Gladys 
that  "  Gates  of  Utterance  "  should  be  dedicated 
to  Dorothea,  she  answered  that  poets  were  not 
in  the  habit  of  dedicating  their  verse  to  them 
selves.  So  in  writing  even  a  brief  sketch  it  is 
necessary  to  think  of  them  as  they  were,  an 
identity  expressed  in  two  terms.  They  were 
born  in  November,  1885,  and  inherited  posses 
sions,  talents,  and  an  exquisite  beauty  strangely 
poignant  because  in  the  twin  sisters  the  charm 
seemed  more  than  doubled.  There  are  a  few 
men  and  women  with  whom  one  feels  a  sense  of 
spiritual  mystery :  one  walks  with  them  always 
on  the  road  to  Emmaus.  It  was  true  of  these 
two.  They  found  their  home  in  the  unseen.  In 
the  outer,  material  world  they  existed  only  by 
an  effort  that  cost  them  much,  for  they  moved 
as  spirits,  untouched  by  crude  desires ;  bending 
with  a  shy  longing  to  meet  human  needs ;  search 
ing  for  some  solution  that  should  justify  their 
[113] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

personal  immunities,  their  money,  and  the  grace 
and  luxury  to  which  they  had  been  born.  A 
delicate  humility  made  them  feel  debtors  to  life. 
In  their  eyes  existence  was  a  bond  given  by  the 
soul,  to  be  redeemed  at  any  cost.  Both  had 
written  from  childhood,  and  in  1915  Gladys 
published  a  volume  of  poems  that  promised  no 
uncertain  music.  Slight  as  it  was,  endless  toil 
lay  back  of  it:  she  had  the  master's  sense  of 
workmanship,  and  every  verse  and  stanza  was 
the  outcome  of  labor  that  had  often  covered 
years.  "  Gates  of  Utterance  "  was  obviously  a 
first  book :  but  it  was  the  first  book  of  a  poet. 
Dorothea  was  developing  more  slowly,  experi 
menting  more  cautiously.  The  short  stories  she 
left  show  at  once  more  cleverness,  a  keener  sense 
of  epigram,  of  earth's  hidden  laughter,  than  any 
one  could  have  guessed  who  saw  only  a  grace 
ful,  fuchsia-like  creature,  eager  to  give  her  time 
and  income  to  social  experiment  and  investiga 
tion.  But  of  them  more  was  asked  than  selfless 
generosity,  or  will  to  serve.  In  a  picture  taken 
at  the  Chalons  Canteen,  the  two  girls,  veiled  and 
habited  in  white  working  uniform,  stand  like 
conventual  sisters  serving  a  group  of  poilus ; 
Dorothea  holds  a  slender  pitcher  from  which 
she  pours  into  the  soldier's  cup,  while  Gladys 
offers  bread  in  a  shallow  basket.  Clear  of  line 
like  a  classic  bas-relief,  the  so  fortunate  and  so 
[114] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

casual  photograph  is  strangely  symbolic  and 
recalls  One  who  said,  "  Take,  eat ;  this  is  my 
body  broken  for  you."  Gladys  and  Dorothea 
Cromwell  broke  the  bread  of  their  bodies  and 
poured  out  the  wine  of  their  spirits  that  others 
might  live. 

When  the  war  drew  an  inerasable  line  across 
all  lives,  the  two  girls  began  to  prepare  them 
selves.  They  spent  their  summer  months  in 
a  hospital;  they  learned  to  run  a  motor;  they 
took  canteen-efficiency  lessons ;  they  held  them 
selves  aloof  from  the  over-heated  speech  of  ex 
citement,  but  their  hearts  burned  within  them. 
The  world  as  they  saw  it  demanded  of  them  an 
heroic  resolve. 

In  January,  1918,  the  two  sisters,  having  en 
rolled  in  the  Canteen  Service  of  the  Red  Cross, 
sailed  for  France  and  were  stationed  at  Chalons. 
For  eight  months  they  worked  under  fire  on 
long  day  or  night  shifts ;  their  free  time  was 
filled  with  volunteer  outside  service;  they  slept 
in  "  caves  "  or  under  trees  in  a  field ;  they  suf 
fered  from  the  exhaustion  that  is  so  acute  to 
those  who  have  never  known  physical  labor ;  yet 
no  one  suspected  until  the  end  came  that  for 
many  months  they  had  believed  their  work  a 
failure,  and  their  efforts  futile.  The  Chalonais 
called  them  "  The  Saints  " ;  during  dull  even 
ings,  the  poilus,  who  adored  the  "  Twin  An- 
[115] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

gels,"  found  amusement  in  effort,  always  unsuc 
cessful,  to  distinguish  them  apart.  The  work 
ers  in  the  Canteen  loved  and  admired  them  for 
their  courage  —  that  finest  bravery  which  leads 
fear  to  intrepid  action;  they  loved  them  for 
their  rare  charm,  but  they  gave  them  whole- 
souled  appreciation  for  the  tireless,  efficient 
labor  which  made  them  invaluable  as  practical 
canteeners.  In  September,  at  their  own  re 
quest,  they  were  transferred  to  an  Evacuation 
Hospital,  for  after  the  rest  of  a  "  permission  " 
they  longed  to  work  with  "  our  own  boys." 
Eight  months  overwhelming  strain  and  fatigue 
had  made  them  more  weary  than  they  realized, 
and  the  horrors  of  conditions  near  the  Front 
broke  their  already  overtaxed  endurance.  In 
the  diaries  they  left,  signs  of  mental  breakdown 
begin  to  show  as  early  as  October.  After  the 
Armistice,  when  they  returned  to  Chalons  as 
guests,  they  showed  symptoms  of  nervous  pros 
tration,  but  years  of  self-control  and  considera 
tion  for  others  made  them  conceal  the  black 
horror  in  which  they  lived  —  the  agony  through 
which  they  saw  a  world  which  they  felt  contained 
no  refuge  for  beauty  and  quiet  thought.  In 
such  a  world  they  conceived  they  had  no  place, 
and  when  on  their  way  home  they  jumped  from 
the  deck  of  the  Lorraine,  it  was  in  response  to 
a  vision  that  promised  them  fulfilment  and 
[116] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

peace.  To  those  who  loved  them,  their  death 
was  not  only  heart-breaking,  but  brought  with 
it  a  terrible  sense  of  that  most  profound  trag 
edy  of  war, —  the  bitter  waste  of  spiritual 
promise.  In  everyday  life  they  were  of  those 
to  whom  the  senses  carry  a  double  message ;  all 
of  us  have  memories  of  moments  when  a  driven 
leaf,  a  slant  of  afternoon  light,  send  through 
avenue  of  sight  or  sound  an  anguish  no  physical 
cause  can  explain  —  to  these  sisters,  life  was 
continuously  bought  at  such  a  price,  and  the 
undue  strain  broke  the  too  frail  physiques. 

It  is  almost  a  year  since  they  died  on  the  19th 
of  January,  1919.  Three  months  later  they 
were  buried  in  France  with  military  honors,  and 
the  French  Government  has  awarded  them  the 
Croix  de  Guerre  and  the  Medaille  de  Recon 
naissance  fran9aise.  They  gave  to  the  world 
lives  of  shining  promise  and  crystal  purity, 
having  followed  Him  who  said  to  His  other 
disciples :  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this, 
that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend. 

These  pines  could  feel  the  wind,  the  snow, 

The  April  sun; 

But  through  them  now  no  changes  flow. 

These  pines  could  feel  the  grief  and  mirth 

Of  quiet  years; 

But  now  they  know  unchanging  dearth. 

[117] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

And  they  can  feel  no  mood  of  spring: 

Like  certain  souls 

Who  find  in  flame  their  blossoming. 

ANNE  DUNN, 


[118] 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Actor-Soldier,  The 
Approach      . 
Aspiration    .      . 
Audience,  The  .      .      . 

Autumn 

Autumn  Communion  . 

Bat,  The  .  .  .  . 
Beggar,  The  .  .  . 
Breath,  The  .  .  . 
By  the  Sea  .... 

Choice 

Christian,  The  .  .  . 
Christmas,  Madison 
Square  .  .  .  . 
Circle,  The  .... 
Compensation  . 

Conflict 

Crowning  Gift,  The     . 

Deep,  The  .... 
Definition  .... 
Deliverance  .... 
Deserted  Shrine,  The  . 
Discipline  .... 
Disillusion  .... 
Dominion  .... 
Dusk 

Early  Snow  .  .  . 
Education  .... 

Egypt 


3      Emblems       ....  89 

86      Experience    ....  30 

92      Extra,  The   ....  31 
80 

111       Folded  Power  ...  33 

6       Forest  Fire,  The    .      .  34 

Fountain,  The   .      .      .  100 

78       Fugitive,  The     ...  35 

8 

10  Gardener,  The  .      .      .  37 

11  Gates     of     Utterance, 

The 73 

13      Grief 38 

15 

Handicapped      ...  39 

16       Hermit,  The      .      .      .  102 

19  Hypocrite's       Reward, 

76          The 103 

109 

20  Idleness 40 

Independence     .      .      .41 

21  Intuition        ....  96 

87      Joy 93 

23 

24       Kindred        ....  97 
25 

26  Laughter       ....  4^ 

27  Leisure 43 

108      Lion,  The      ....  44 

Love 45 

29 

94      Manumission      ...  46 

107      Mocking  Wind,  The    .  47 

[1191 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Mould,  The  .     .     . 

.     48 

Song  

58 

Star  Song     .      .      .      , 

59 

Poet,  The      ... 

.     49 

Poet's  Thrift,  The 

.     90 

Temptation              .     . 

60 

.Preparation        .      . 

.   106 

Testimony  of  Hands  . 

104 

Progression        .     . 

.     95 

Thought  

61 

Threshold,  The       .      . 

101 

Quest,  The  .     .     . 

.     50 

To  France    .      .      .      . 

83 

To  My  Poet       .      .      . 

62 

Reality 

77 

To  the  Crowd  . 

110 

Realization    . 

.      52 

Transmission 

105 

Release    . 

53 

Tyranny        . 

63 

Renewal        .     . 

.     54 

Resignation 

.     98 

Uncertainty       .     . 

64 

Riders,  The       .      . 

.     74 

Voice,  The    .     .     .     . 

65 

Scientist,  The    .      . 

.     55 

Separation    .      .      . 

.     56 

Weakling,  The  .      .      . 

66 

Solace  of  Seasons  . 

.     99 

Winter  Poetry  .      .      . 

67 

Solicitude      .     .     . 

.     91 

Winter  Song      .      .      . 

68 

Sonar  . 

57 

Words 

69 

[120 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  shell  expressed  the  verity 105 

A  time  will  come  when  I  shall  breathe    ....   106 

A  trembling  crest 10 

Above  the  forest  line 29 

Apparelled  in  a  mask  of  joy  till  now 86 

As  clouds  lie  in  the  west 87 

As  flowers  at  dusk  their  choicest  perfumes  hold  .  .  108 
At  evening,  I  have  seen  him  wander  in  .  .  .  .37 
Can  this  be  love  men  yield  me  in  return  ....  54 
Capricious  little  poem  and  sapling  rhyme  .  .  .  .111 
Cold  winter  finds  no  word  of  condolence  .  .  .  .99 
Confined  within  the  walls  of  a  grey  world  ....  66 

Dear  Poet  of  the  swift  imperial  ways 62 

Deliverance?    You  mean  this  empty  cup   ....     23 

Divided  by  the  dark 109 

Exultant  whirlwind  wrung  the  branches     ....     38 

Fool,   Fool 35 

How  shall  I  make  of  joy  discovery? 93 

How  still  is  Egypt,  as  a  corpse's  breast   ....   107 

Hush,  hush,  O  wind! 45 

I  feel  the  lines  of  yellow  sunlight  burn    ....     44 

I  feel  the  stress 40 

I  had  lived  many  years  when  first  I  met     ...     94 

I  have  had  courage  to   accuse 20 

I  hear  His  voice  and  the  sea's  voice  .....  65 
I  lie  in  wait  that  I  may  steal  a  view  .....  41 

I  like  to  see  the  pebbles  creep 57 

I  mark  the  hermit's  den 102 

I  must  have  peace,  increasing  peace 21 

I  threaded  endless  aisles   .  ...   101 

I  was  free.     But  now  in  a  net  I  am  caught  ...     15 

I  was  the  temple  for  a  people's  need 24 

Imperious  Time,  I  must  prefer 13 

1 1*1  ] 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

In  dismal  darkness  stands  the  Christmas  pine     .      .  16 

Intently  leans  the  avid  sage ,      .  80 

Is  every  day  the  judgment  day? 104 

Love  is  like  a  wind  that  passes  .......  58 

Lovers  think  that  they  alone  possess 67 

My  garden  fountain  sings  to-night 100 

My  grief  comes  back  after  an  interval     ....  19 

My  landscape  only  need  comprise  low  hills   ...  90 

No  doubt  this  active  will 48 

O  Friend,  we  meet  and  feel  as  free 11 

O  stars,  they've  left  me  with  you  here     ....  53 

O  tell  me,  tell  me 49 

O  Wind,  you  will  not  break  my  house 47 

Oh,  still  I  dream  of  thee,  my  France !     The  sun     .  83 

Oh,  you  are  free !    When  you  are  satisfied    ...  46 

On  the  grass  I'm  lying 3 

Only  a  blunder 26 

Over  the  rivers  of  sorrow 78 

Patrician  overthrown 27 

Rhythms  of  exultation  flow -  96 

Sheltered  and  safe  we  sit 31 

Showing  his  ill-made  frame 8 

Sometimes  a  phrase 64 

Sorrow  can  wait 33 

The  dark  house  yonder  is  my  life   .   » 98 

The  resonance  of  wind  and  wave 95 

There  are  twisted  roots  that  grow 59 

There  is  a  throng  within   the   gates 73 

There  is  no  need  for  you  to  cheer  or  nerve  ...  30 

There  is  one  syllable  that  stirs  me:  War!  ....  52 

These  forty  days  I  fasted  in 25 

These  pines  could  feel  the  wind,  the  snow     ...  34 

This  autumn  afternoon 6 

This  One  I  feared  is  powerless  become     ....  63 

Though  my  frail  soul  should  never  touch  again     .      .  92 

Thought  is  fragrant  like  shining  grass 61 

Through  moveless  pines  I  hear  the  air      ....  68 

Throughout  his  life  men  seldom  spoke  with  him  .      .  42 

[1221 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Tis  in  a  measure  easy  not  to  plan 39 

To  me,  your  transport  is  a  dim  surmise    .      .      .      .91 

What  inequality! 9? 

What  things  are  real? 77 

When  came  his  final  judgment   .......   103 

When  I  have  nothing  else  to  do 43 

When  I  hold  a  budding  pleasure 110 

When  intervals  of  solitude  are  done 56 

Where  sweet  ferns  blow,  where  hemlock  shadows  lie     89 

With  what  fidelity  and  yearning  care 55 

Words  are  the  stones  I  use  in  building     ....     69 
You  feel  the  witchery  of  Life,  the  call     ....     60 

You  look  askance  at  me 74 

You  never  told  me,  never,  yet  I  know      ....     76 
You've  been  a  wanderer,  you! 50 


PRINTED   IN    THE   UNITED    STATES   Or   AMERICA 

[123] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


RUV     JL  t    tPOd 

NOV  13  mi 

MAD     OT     lO'-tM 

wAn   &  t     IJO3 

•  -    -   ,    -'V'.,  .     . 

i        ^.  <t»7^u&  " 
lAj  I    H*-v\yi  ^^ 

SFP   *9   1955  ff 

iZ 

/ 

gMay'GSAEf 

AU63188K 

JUM.19  1^6 

ocn    MB*         HPT   1     o  10Q 

KCL  Cnt     OUT  1  8  roo 

5 

LD  21-100m-7,'33 

p 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


BDDDfllSblb 


458215 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


